


The Distance From 'A' to Where You'd Be

by sunsetdreamer



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetdreamer/pseuds/sunsetdreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots based on the tweets of @loversdiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Macabre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RositaLG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RositaLG/gifts).



> David Levithan's 'The Lover's Dictionary' is one of my favourite books of all time. It's a story told through a series of definitions, and it's written in this magical, lyrical fashion that embodies everything I could ever dream of creating when I grow up. In my old fandom, I used the words/definitions from the corresponding twitter account to make little one-shots, and because I am a one trick pony hack, I'm doing it all over again. I know there's already a wonderful definition styled trend in this fandom (which I thoroughly enjoy), but hopefully this is different enough that I'm not stepping on any toes. I promise that is not at all my intention. 
> 
> For RositaLG. Because nothing kicks my lazy muse into high gear like vacation countdown time. It's weird, I'm rusty, yada yada, I promise they will not all be this angsty.

* * *

 

**Macabre, adj.: You keep the ravens in your head in a loose cage, allowing them to whisper their worst-case darkness between the bars.**

Their latest murder investigation leads them to a new drug trafficking ring. Phryne beats Jack and his men to the location, and doesn’t wait for them. Naturally. She exhibits far more patience than usual but one can only ask so much of a person and anyway, it’s poor luck that gets her caught; she picks the locks and slips in through the rear door at the _precise_ moment that the guard she’s been watching exits the building to relieve himself in the alley. Via the same door.

He’s quicker on the draw than she is, she’s loathe to admit. She manages to land one solid blow before she’s dragged inside, and then she’s outnumbered. The needle is emptied of its contents before Phryne registers that she’s been pricked. She tries to remain lucid; counts countries, fashion designers, her favourite cities, but they are all quick to fall from her grasp. Collingwood. She remembers living in Collingwood. Born in Collingwood. A sister, she had a sister.

No. Better not to dwell on that.

London. Her second home. She misses the sun and it’s always cold and she’s so often sad, though she tries very hard not to be.

There’s a war; she can’t recall those cities. Too many. Move on. France. She falls in love with Paris. With the people. With life. She’s free. And then she isn’t.

No. This is an equally bad place to pause.

After Paris comes-

After Paris comes-

By the time Jack bursts through the hidden entrance to the cellars, she can no longer distinguish past and present. She’s trapped – for the second time – in a year of her life she would rather erase entirely.

“Phryne!”

The room is empty save for the two of them, and she is afraid. Jack hesitates, analyses. Because unfiltered fear is not a face she wears often. She’s tucked into the far corner. Still. Unnaturally still. And her eyes do not track him as he approaches. When Jack kneels in front of her, she continues to stare off into a place he cannot see.

“Phryne,” he repeats.

There’s no answer. Her pupils are dilated and he clenches his jaw. God only knows how much liquid opium is currently in her system. Or how long she’s been under its influence. His instinct is to lift her; carrying her to the car seems more efficient than trying to help her get there under her own power, and his mind is racing with worst case overdose scenarios. But when his arm slips under her knees, she is no longer still.

“No.”

“We have to go. Come on-

“ _No_.”

He tries to catch her eye. To get her to _see_ him. “It’s me; it’s Jack. You’re safe.”

“Jack.” She repeats.

Her fear fades into confusion and he tries (fails) to give her a reassuring smile. “Shall we try again?”

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t fight him either. Passive compliance does not become of her, but in this instance, Jack is willing to accept it.

“Alright. Off we go, Miss Fisher,” he says in a light tone.

It is not remotely convincing. She doesn’t notice.

Phryne’s head falls heavily against Jack’s chest. She’s dead weight in his arms and he’s struck by a sense of deja-vu, but never mind all of that now. Phryne Fisher is resilient. She survived the last time, and this will be no different.

(it is different. They are different. They are so much more than they were, then)

He yells for Collins, brings him up to speed, and leaves him in charge, all in the span of three terse sentences tossed over his shoulder. Phryne stiffens when he steps into the alley, her spine going suddenly rigid and then arching until he nearly drops her. Jack glances down the street; he can see the police car now. They’re close. So close. But he has no choice but to lower her to the ground.

“Phryne.” Her teeth are chattering. Christ. He grips her arms firmly. “I need you to help me.”

She shakes her head. She’s sweating and shivering at the same time, and Jack feels his adrenaline climbing as she slips away. For all her adventures, it has been many years since Phryne has habitually abused stronger substances. A low tolerance and forceful circumstances make for a deadly combination. He does not know how to help her. How to make this better. Does not know how to shield her from the enemy when it appears that – for now – the most pressing enemy is him.

“Phryne. Look at me. Focus.”

Acting on reflex, his hand touches her chin in an effort to guide her eyes to his. Acting on stronger reflex, she flinches.

The shout commanding Jack not to touch her reaches his ears _just_ before there is blinding pain in his thigh.

She’s stabbed him. That dagger of hers has been drawn in an instant and she’s _stabbed_ him. He grits his teeth and grapples for the knife – more concerned with her safety than his, though there _is_ a small amount of concern for his safety as well – and she moves from instinct to blind panic. Cries out as she lashes desperately against an enemy that is and is not him. Jack swallows his rage. Pushes it down until he cannot reach it. He can’t undo what’s been done to her, but what he wouldn’t give…

He’s stronger than she is, though she is scrappy as hell and the victory (if one can call it that. He can’t.) does not come easily. She curls into herself when she cannot free her arms from the grip pinning them to her sides. Her knees meet her chest and she shakes uncontrollably, muttering words to herself that he cannot quite hear.

“You’re breaking my heart, love,” he says softly.

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t acknowledge the outside world again until Dr. MacMillan takes over her care and tosses Jack out of the hospital room without ceremony. Mac is a physician first. Phryne’s oldest and dearest friend second. Jack considers himself lucky to have somehow stumbled into her top ten.

\--

Phryne stretches her legs across the window seat, covering her preferred side along with the space she now considers Jack’s. She flips the page of her book; it’s a newly purchased – not to mention, particularly scandalous – piece of erotica gifted to her by Mac. But even this cannot set her world right-side up again.

It’s been three days since her release from the hospital. Four days since she woke up to Jack asleep in a chair beside her unfamiliar bed. Five days since Mac saved her life. Again. Six months since she returned from London and met Jack in an airfield for the second time. Six months since the hangar was as far as they could make it before a frantic coupling.

She’s been staunchly avoiding him since Mac cleared her to go home. She can’t remember what she had said, what she had done. She’s relied entirely on Mac’s version of the events (both first hand, and second hand) and can only imagine the heavily edited version Jack would have supplied her. She wants to pretend this never happened. Knows Jack will not make any attempt to force her to discuss her past and yet can’t fully bury the small piece of her still stuck in Paris, wanting to explain how _he_ had taken all her pieces so gradually, one day there hadn’t been anything left and she hadn’t been able to remember how to be the sort of person who would go about getting them back. Hadn’t been able to remember if she had ever been that sort of person to begin with. How do you confide in a close friend, when your monster had been their friend first? Phryne Fisher had drank and danced and worked and socialised until she had been sure it was worth any lows. Then he had taken away the work. And the dancing. And the friends.

He kicks a stray cat squarely in the ribs. A small, skittish thing the colour of charcoal that happened to get in his way moments after he had kicked her in a similar fashion. She hears its small bones crack and knows its pain. Just like that, they are bonded.  Les deux chats noirs with a shared abuser, and this is her turning point. Nursing an injured black cat back to health because she feels responsible for its plight, for being the spark to René’s rage that had led to this.

(she has never learned to regulate guilt. Has never learned to accept the bad in the world she believes to be her fault. She still cannot help seeking atonement for all perceived wrong doings.)

 And when she sees a woman in the market, rich, but far too dull to have ever fired – or even had need of – a weapon, brandishing a pearl-handled golden gun and laughing amongst her friends, the part of Phryne that knows how to steal, knows how to see something she desires and just as quickly take it, picks the woman’s purse the moment the gun has been tucked away. And then disappears with it just as quickly.

There may be hundreds of pieces of Phryne Fisher missing, plundered, but she has just recovered one of them and Collingwood Pirates know how to take what’s owed them.

The gun stays hidden under a floorboard for weeks and they heal together until one day she accidentally leaves the apartment door ajar. And if a small, skittish, charcoal coloured cat can escape a tyrant, so can she.

The golden gun is taken from beneath the floorboards. All her things fit into a small grocery sack with room to spare. René does not return in the time between the cat’s escape and hers, but she would have shot him if he had. She is sure of it. She is sure of it every day onward until a showdown years later in a café so much like the one in which they met.

In Café Replique, she hesitates.

She is no longer sure. Instead, she is glad she never had to find out. He is dead and she is not, and this, most days, is enough.

Phryne is pulled from her musings by a knock on the door. She draws her legs into her body, already defensive. She has no desire to speak to anyone today. Especially not Jack. But if she deals with this now, she can spend the next several days alone without the possibility of another drop-in hanging over her head.

“Ah, Inspector.” Mr. Butler, professional and polite as always. “I’m afraid Miss Fisher isn’t receiving visitors today.”

Bless his heart. From the pause that follows, Phryne can tell that Jack is not altogether surprised by the rebuke. But he has always been one to take such stumbles (mostly) in stride.

“Of course. If you could tell her that I stopped by-

Phryne’s jaw tightens and she passes through the parlour into the front hall.

“It’s alright, Mr. B.”

The faithful employee bows his head in deference and leaves the room without another word. Jack and Phryne share an awkward silence. He’s still standing on the porch, and she can’t quite bring herself to invite him in.

Eventually, she clears her throat and speaks first.

“Mac tells me I owe you an apology. And that my criminal record now bears the new addition of assault of an officer with a deadly weapon.”

Jack allows himself a small smile. “She’s half right. I assumed you would wear the charge like a badge of honour and left if for Queen and country to see. You’ve been released on your own recognizance; just be sure to show up for your hearing.”

Phryne smiles back and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it is not forced. “I’ll do my best to clear my schedule, but I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid. I could apologise now and save us the time in the future-

“You don’t owe me an apology, Phryne,” Jack interrupts with conviction. “You don’t owe me anything.”

And that’s where he’s wrong. He’s so wrong. But the words get stuck in her throat.

He’s favouring his right side. Phryne doesn’t know how it has taken her so long to notice. She swallows her guilt. Tries very hard not to imagine the bandaging hidden by his trousers.

“Come in, Jack.” She steps back and brings the door with her. “You should be resting.”

He’s already shaking his head. “No. I don’t wish to intrude. I just needed to be sure you were… you.”

“And am I?” She can’t help asking. Some days, she feels more dimensionless than others.

“Yes,” Jack responds emphatically. “Very much so.”

“I don’t feel it,” she confesses.

“You’re very strong.”

He means it. Physically and mentally. All others fade into shadows cast by the strength of Phryne Fisher.

 “Not always.” The smile is sad.

Somehow it cuts him deeper than no smile at all.

“No one is,” he rebuts. “But you certainly know how to make it count.”

“Please,” she hesitates, clears her throat, tries again (though nothing changes), “please don’t call me. Even if there is a murder investigation. I’ll find you when I’m ready.”

Jack nods. Takes an unconscious step back from the door. “As you wish, Miss Fisher.”

* * *

 

The initial raid is carried out without a hitch. The constables follow Jack’s clipped orders and divide themselves between collecting evidence and cuffing their many suspects. ‘Relaxed’ would be too strong a word, but the worst is over ( _should_ be over) and the adrenaline fueled taste of metal in Jack’s mouth has begun to recede.

And then the room is burning.

Jack throws himself to the ground and covers his head to shield it from falling debris (the passing of years are not enough to dull instincts sharpened by suffering). A second explosion sounds, closer, and he pulls himself along on the floor, trying to determine the source without making himself an easy target.

“Collins!” He shouts over the commotion. Receives no answer.

Christ. Who in their right mind would-

Another blast sounds, close enough for Jack to feel the heat of it on his face.

“Collins!”

“Here, Sir!”

Jack swallows his relief. Stands and assesses. The smoke is dense; it’s difficult to distinguish colleague from fleeing foe. All their careful planning, and they’ve descended once again into total anarchy. As the smoke begins to clear, he grabs a nearby gang member and pins him to the floor, and he finally makes out Hugh standing a few feet away – looking especially bewildered, but dutifully maintaining his grip on the suspect he had been holding when the explosions began.

There is shattered glass everywhere and small fires burning. Alone, they are harmless, but they are many, and they are growing, and it will not be long until the structure of rotted wood is engulfed in flame. Jack breathes too deeply and pays for it. Once he begins to cough, it becomes a fight to stop.

“Right.” He rasps roughly. “Everyone outside, before the roof caves in on us.”

It’s a rival gang foolishly acting on an opportunity to rid themselves of both their competition and the local constabulary. There are three casualties; one suspect dies from burn injuries, the other two are gunned down when they flee the building amidst the chaos of the first explosion.

Jack’s relief that all of his men will return home to their families with only superficial cuts and bruising, outweighs the guilt that accompanies it.

As he joins the frantic attempts of City South to restore order, a dull pain registers in his left arm and he looks down to find his palm full of glass, and a somewhat disconcerting burn blister creeping across the back of his hand. It should hurt a lot more than it does; he knows that much. He protects it as best as he can until the situation is back under police control, and then it’s quickly cleaned, stitched and bandaged by the attending physician.

Jack can feel the pain of it now. And though he knows this is a good thing, he could do without it.

He’s barely through the front door to the station when he hears the line in his office begin to ring. The late hour means it’s likely either the Commissioner or Phryne, but one look at Collins, whose head has turned toward the sound and then back to Jack, guilt-ridden, narrows it down.

He can’t fault Collins for promptly telephoning his wife, but there are days he wishes Mrs. Collins and Miss Fisher did not keep quite such close company.

Jack’s eyes roll skyward and he walks purposefully into his office, removing his jacket as he picks up the telephone.

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“You’ve been holding out on me, Jack.”

“And a good evening to you, Miss Fisher.” Jack drops into his chair.

“More than twenty arrests and you didn’t think to invite me?”

“I suspect my senior constable and your companion may have exaggerated tonight’s series of events.”

“Hmm.” He can hear her blasé scepticism. “Lucky for you, I’ve already got plans for this evening. And I have no real interest in the paperwork side of a case.”

He smiles. It’s genuine. Stretches across his face in a manner he so rarely permits. He’s glad to hear her voice. Glad for this small reminder of what his life has become when it all could have ended very differently. He stops fidgeting with the papers on his desk. Grounds himself in her brightness and the throbbing in his hand. His heart slows.

But the peace is as short-lived as the phone call.

He’s at the station for hours; the reports and evidence cataloguing take many times over what he had anticipated before... before. Senseless criminals committing senseless crimes. He sends his staff home a little after midnight, save for the constables originally scheduled for the overnight shift. There’s a storm beginning; he can hear the distant rumblings of thunder. He hopes the electricity holds out long enough for him to finish his work. The reports take longer than they should; Jack, who is always so calm, so still, is restless. Cannot see any task through to completion without losing focus along the way. The front door slams and he is listening, listening, on guard. Nothing comes of it – as he should have expected. He clears his throat and, with some effort, brings his attention back to the documents on the desk.

It’s pouring rain by the time Jack calls it quits. The cells are far too loud for him to sleep here tonight; full of prisoners waiting to be transferred to City Central. Wardlow is closer to the station than his home; it’s late enough that even Phryne will be asleep, and though he doesn’t make a habit of showing up at her house unannounced, this is his policy, not hers.

A few hours, he promises himself. A few hours. He’ll have come and gone before she wakes. He is tightly wound, but perhaps, if she is still – as she so seldom is – he can find a way to rest in kind.

It isn’t meant to be. Phryne, as it turns out, is just getting in as well. They pull up to Wardlow within seconds of one another. He’s fumbling for his key when she steps out of the cab, shoes dangling from her fingertips. The rain is falling even harder now; heavy sheets blowing hard and fast. She’s soaked before she reaches the relative shelter of her doorstep, but she’s tipsy enough not to be bothered.  She doesn’t spot him right away, and Jack’s chest tightens a little. The way it does every time he gets to just watch her.

“Jack!” Phryne grins as she meets him on the step. “This is a pleasant surprise. A little past your usual bed time.”

He gives her a tight smile in return. “A little past yours as well, Miss Fisher.”

A combination of darkness and alcohol keeps her from examining his face too closely.

“Please come in, Inspector.” She drinks him in from head to toe and back again as she unlocks the door, and Jack knows sleep is not what she has in mind.

Their wet clothing is not easily discarded. It clings to their bodies, resists their pulls. The delicate stitching of Phryne’s dress tears easily – Jack is certain she’ll be cross about it in the morning. It’s for the best that he’ll be gone by then.

He gasps when she inadvertently clutches his injured hand. He tries to pull away, but he is not quite fast enough. Phryne’s unfocused, aroused gaze sharpens and she does not let go.

“What happened?”

“I found myself on the receiving end of a homemade incendiary device.” Jack answers dryly.

“Sounds exciting.”

“I’m sure you would have enjoyed it.”

He kisses her deeply. Slips his hand over the cold, damp skin of her inner thigh and persuades her to postpone her interrogation. The rest of their clothes drop heavily onto the carpet, and Jack spends his restlessness. Pours his energy into her. Tries to forget his unease.

\--

He wakes up gasping. Struggling to find air, coughing in vain efforts to expel damp earth clogging his throat and filling his lungs. His fellow soldiers are dead and those who aren’t are dying. Around him, dying. With him, dying. They are, all of them, dying. There’s heavy fire to one side and the trench begins to collapse. He grabs his nearest comrade, pulls. They will not sink. Death cannot have them all.

Thunder cracks above him. The storm is close and the air reeks of ozone. The lightning is blinding – not a quick burst, but long flashes that fully illuminate the luxurious bedding, the intricate walls, the modern paintings…

“Jack.”

He’s already coming back to himself, but the sound of her voice, gentle, steady, brings reality crashing down on him at a speed that sends his stomach lurching. His breathing is fast and shallow, and in the ensuing silence, he realises that his good hand is clenching her wrist so hard his fingers are aching. He can only imagine how her wrist feels. He lets go immediately. Phryne gives it a few careful, absent rotations without taking her eyes from his. The lighting and thunder are falling over one another now; it is not difficult to make out her face, despite the late hour.

She opens her mouth to speak but he is out of the bed before she can make a sound. For someone so still, his movements can be startling. Extraordinary. Even when the observer knows him intimately.

“I should go.”

“Jack.” She sits up fully in the bed as he stiffly moves around the room, collecting his clothes from where they have been haphazardly spread across her floor. The sheets pool around her waist and she makes no move to cover her bare chest. It’s unlikely – in this situation – that it’s a tactic, but Jack is trapped and embarrassed and it’s easier to think (unkindly) that it’s a conscious effort on her part to manipulate him into staying.

“I’m sorry I woke you, Miss Fisher.”

It slips off his tongue and she looks slighted. Her societal name has been used more often than she can count within the walls of her bedroom, but it has always been a part of their dance. A flirtation more than anything else (barring that one time they had not been alone. When they had had her companion and his right hand man and a rather large spider for company). The formality stings.

Jack is dressing at record speed, though slower than he would like. Slower than he could manage with two fully functional hands. He hesitates briefly as he watches her expression change, but he shakes his head and pushes onward.

“Jack, the city is a few minutes of rain away from floating off entirely. You can’t go out there. Just come back to bed.”

He shakes his head again. Can’t bring himself to answer her with words. Does not look back. The walls rattle as the door slams. It’s impossible to know whether it’s him or the thunder that is the cause. In any case, he’s down the stairs and out of the house before she can think to follow him.

He hates to indulge her proclivity for dramatics, but the city is indeed underwater. He can barely see a step in front of him; driving a car would be suicide.

He is not quite at that point.

So he walks. His clothes have not been given time to fully dry from his last venture outdoors, and he’s thoroughly soaked by the time he reaches the sidewalk. Nearly two hours pass before he reaches his house, though it feels like minutes. His fingers are too cold to possess the dexterity required to undo his buttons. Even his shoes prove impossible. He’d tear the damn things off but his hands won’t cooperate enough to do that, either.

(though this does not stop him from trying. Failing. Trying again)

Teeth chattering, he simply collapses on the couch, wet clothes and shoes a problem he will most certainly find rattling tomorrow but cannot bring himself to care about enough to address tonight.

There’s no healing from a war. Only thin scabbing. She has thickened the layer of coagulated blood but it remains discouragingly vulnerable to fresh tearing.

\--

At the station later that morning, Jack burns his throat raw on cup after cup of scalding hot tea, and still cannot get warm. The dampness has seeped into his bones. He’ll be lucky if this discomfort is the only consequence that comes from his poor decision making. He’s stiff. Every interruption sets his teeth on edge.

He’s half focused on his work, half calculating how to approach the next conversation he will have with Phryne. He can’t control his subconscious and nightmares are not entirely without precedent, but this is the first time such a thing has happened while in her company. They are a strong pair; one of the (many) problems in his marriage following the war had been his inability to communicate in a manner in-depth enough to satisfy Rosie. Partially it had been to shield her from a new darkness within himself he had not yet learned to accept. From what he knew _she_ was not ready to accept, regardless of claims to the contrary. Mostly, however, it had been for himself. There are few things worse than feeling boxed in a corner. Than being forced to discuss topics and concerns he would sooner ignore entirely.

Phryne has her own demons and they have an understanding. Unspoken, as the most important things between them are. But a line has been blurred and he cannot settle his unease.

It’s barely past noon when the door swings open without so much as a cursory knock. He should be grateful to have made it this far into his day before her (inevitable) arrival, but it’s still too soon.

“It’s rather early in the day for you to be making your rounds, Miss Fisher,” he says dryly.

She falls heavily into the chair across from him. Her every move attracts attention. It is a comforting consistency.

“Just making sure you’re still alive,” she responds lightly.

Jack shifts in his chair, but his expression remains neutral. “Are you quite satisfied?”

She studies him. Bright eyes unblinking. It’s unnerving to be caught under her direct scrutiny.

“No.”

He clears his throat; all these months (years. They aren’t fooling anyone) and he is still caught off guard by her occasional quiet conviction.

Phryne blinks, and then she is as she had been when she first stormed his office. Airy. Blinding sun and equally blinding flirtation. “Come on. I’m taking you to lunch.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to eat, Inspector.”

“I _can’t_.” He’s more insistent the second time, and she hesitates. But not for long. When her mouth opens to try and persuade him anew, he heads her off as gently as he can manage. “I have work to do, Phryne. I’ll call you this evening.”

It isn’t a dismissal, exactly. But the effect is the same. They are experts at containing themselves. At shielding emotion until such time as it can be sorted in private.

They are good together. Some days they are better than others.

Phryne’s gaze drops for less than a millisecond before she resumes her steady stare. “No need to call, Jack. Use your key when you’re ready.”

He nods and focuses intently on the open file in front of him. Their lives are so very entwined now, he is constantly balancing on the precipice between gratitude and fear. She’s gone before he can decide which is stronger today.

* * *

 

It’s been years, now. Weekend stays have evolved to weekday stays, to weeks-at-a-time stays. To nights in his own bed being few and far between. To the small house being his home in name only. It’s a night like so many before it. Another night, another storm, two strong bodies spread across a large bed. Blankets kicked off and abandoned in the summer heat.

Dark dreams. Violence. Familiar traumas that refuse to die with time. Phryne and Jack get older and their subconscious does not. The past is quieter now, to be sure, but when it is awakened, triggered by something often trivial, it is heavy and fierce as it had been decades earlier.

They are older. They are certain. Secure in This Thing between them they still do not name.

Jack wakes with a jolt. Phryne wakes with no clear memory of her dream but with wet cheeks that make it impossible to deny that something had been very wrong.

There are no words exchanged. A self-depreciating half smile. Fingers entwine, bridging the heat-induced space between their bodies. The moon is full, the curtains and windows wide open in (futile) efforts to catch a breeze. Jack takes advantage of the natural light and counts the smattering of freckles over her bare shoulders. Phryne studies the fluttering of his long, fair lashes. Acting on impulse, she releases a slow, concentrated breath in his direction just to watch the fine hairs move under her influence. Jack blinks in an almost offended sort of surprise, and his brow furrows.

The dark spell breaks.

“Why are you blowing on my face?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep and Phryne’s stomach flips. He is so beautiful. But her voice – also rough from disuse – comes through strong and clear nevertheless. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she answers primly.

“You don’t.”

“No, Jack.”

His features are subdued and controlled as always. She would think he had lost interest in the conversation if she didn’t know better. And she _does_ know better. But it still comes as a shock when he inhales and exhales quite suddenly, returning the favour in a far less than subtle fashion.

She blinks furiously against the sudden invasion of air, laughing all the while. Nothing unspools her quite as easily as staid Detective Inspector Jack Robinson at play.

“Alright. You’ve made your point.”

“For the time being, anyway,” he mutters. “Heaven forbid you take a lesson to heart.”

She pulls her hand away from his, freeing her fingers to trace the line of his sharp jaw and coaxing an indulgent smile in the process.

“You mean a great deal to me, Jack Robinson,” she says.

The sincerity takes root in his chest. He wraps it up and stores it safely, to be reverently unbundled when he next needs it most.

“Likewise, Phryne Fisher.”

He draws her into his chest out of habit, but it really is too hot and it is not long before they separate, slightly disgusted by the sticky air that has settled into their every pore. Their fingers meet in the space on the bed between their bodies, just-barely touching. Jack counts freckles. Phryne studies eyelashes. They sleep until morning.

 


	2. Malleable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the Civic Holiday long weekend here in Canada, and as per tradition, I will spend the next three days day-drinking and camping and hopefully not-falling-off-a-cliff-ing. So here's some fic. It's only been given the quickest of edits, because on long weekends I live dangerously. Sober sunsetdreamer OUT.

**Malleable, adj.: The precarious balance of love – to change each other without any breaks or cracks, just a slow alteration of form.**

He doesn’t allow himself to spend the night at Wardlow during the week. It is full of distractions and noise, and Phryne is generally unpleasant when she is forced to face the day at an ‘ungodly hour’ due to him daring to breathe as he gets ready for work. No, it is far less stressful (for all involved parties) to return to his own residence at the end of the evening unless it’s to be followed by a day off. But a case had been solved the night before, and after finishing the bulk of the paperwork, Jack had gone to share a celebratory nightcap in spite of the late hour. And Phryne – particularly pleased by the part she had played in tying things neatly together – had been insistent on several fronts. One drink had become two. Then three. And his plan to remain in the parlour had somewhat fallen from mind by the time she had tugged him up the stairs.

Moving at all afterward had been out of the question.

Now it is dawn; Jack struggles to locate all his clothes and get out of this house and back to his, to shave and wash and change before heading to the station. He will not have time for breakfast. Probably won’t even have time for tea. And when Phryne begins to stir on the bed, he’s just as cross with her as he is with everything else this morning.

“Where have you put my tie.”

Phryne frowns, but does not open her eyes. “How should I be expected to remember?”

“Because you were the one to pull it off.”

“Why do you need a tie just to go across town to your flat?” She asks, without any particular care for the answer. She’s almost asleep again. Would already be asleep, if not for him and all his damn noise.

Her point holds merit, but Jack has no plans to admit it. “I would just like to know where it is.”

“By all means then, continue.”

Jack sighs, torn between searching on principle and keeping in with his tight schedule. When he realises she’s drifting off again, he changes course to her washing station and decide he can’t be bothered today if he wakes her up. It’s her fault he’s here in the first place.

“Jack.”

The voice from the bed is sultry. Beckoning. He’d like to refuse to turn around but she tends to find a way of making him pay attention when it’s what she desires. He sighs again and straightens his spine before turning. And this brief second he takes to prepare himself is the only reason he can keep hold of his impassive expression when he’s faced with Phryne, sitting up in the bed, legs splayed casually, wearing nothing but his absent tie knotted loosely around her neck.

“I found it,” she says airily.

“So I see. Would you happen to have any intention of giving it back?”

“Not especially.” She settles into the headboard, putting herself further on display. Jack holds her gaze, though he’s very tempted to let his eyes drop to study other parts of her. “However, you’re welcome to come and get it.”

Jack clears his throat. Swallows. “I’m already running late.”

“I’m sure we can both rise to the challenge,” Phryne winks.

He rolls his eyes, but he cannot keep from walking to the bed and tugging on the tie in a delightful reversal of their typical roles until their lips meet. She’s a little more compliant than usual – she tends to be, in the mornings. Before she has herself sorted. That, or she is not compliant _at all_ – and the knowledge that she chooses to let him in her home, in her bed, in her quick, chaotic mind, fills him with a rush of happiness to which he is still cautiously adjusting.

“I need to go, Phryne.” His eyes drop to the sheets as he draws composure.

She takes her time removing his tie and draping it around his own neck. Smooths her hands down his chest. “Do what you must, Inspector.”

The corner of his mouth inches upward. “Try to stay out of trouble, Miss Fisher.”

He heads to the station without breakfast. Without so much as a cup of tea. And Jack Robinson finds that he is not nearly as cross about it as he had been at dawn.

* * *

 

When Phryne wakes – for the second time – several hours later, she’s still rather put out by the morning’s events. Jack does not often spend the night during the week; she had forgotten why over the course of last night, mostly due to being engrossed in getting Jack into her bed, but a rude awakening – with the sun barely on the rise – had brought it all back rather abruptly. And then he hadn’t even had the decency to make it worth her while before leaving. Well, never again.

With a new plan taking form, Phryne throws back the sheets and grabs her robe, flinging open the bedroom door and winding her arms through the holes of the silk garment as she flies down the stairs.

“Morning, Miss.” Dot steps neatly out of her way at the bottom of the staircase, but Phryne is too preoccupied to register the near collision.

“Morning, Dot.”

“You’re very cheery this morning,” Dot observes with a soft smile.

“As a matter of fact, I am, Dot. We have work to do.”

“Has there been a murder?”

Dot follows Phryne into the dining room, sets aside her mending and pours the tea already waiting on the table.

“No murders so far. But a small dash of breaking and entering. Or is it unlawful entry? It’s very difficult to keep the two straight. And we can’t exactly ask the Inspector ahead of time, can we? In any case, we will be entering the premises by non-traditional means.”

Phryne takes a bite of toast, and Dot nods after only the briefest hesitation. “I’ll have Bert and Cec bring the car around.”

The drive across town passes quickly, and Dot’s brow develops a slight crease when Phryne directs them to a decidedly residential street with no alleys in sight for cover. She’s prepared to stay in the car, but the lady detective has other plans.

“Come along, Dot.”

Dot fixes her hat and hurries to open the door. Phryne is already halfway up the walk, and she’s forced to step quickly in order to catch up.

“Is this about the Cunningham case, Miss?”

Phryne looks up from lock picking and Dot keeps an eye on the street, smiling as casually as she can manage at a passing neighbour.

“It’s a little more personal than that.”

Dot takes a moment to process this, and then the switch turns on.

“This is the Inspector’s home, isn’t it,” she says, resigned. It isn’t much of a question at this point.

“Excellent sleuthing,” Phryne praises. With a loud click, the tumblers fall into place and Phryne swings the door open with flourish. Very much pleased with herself, she steps lightly across the threshold. Dot straightens her coat, exhales slowly, and dutifully follows.

* * *

 

Jack’s tentative good mood is blown to bits when he walks into the station and is immediately bombarded with demands for attention from several constables he would have thought capable of handling a few small matters without his constant supervision.

It’s a busy day full of petty crime and petulant law breakers; the mound of paperwork stacked precariously on Jack’s desk doubles in height by noon, and is in grave danger of toppling. By two o’clock, it does indeed fall over (Jack leaves to make a cup of tea and shuts the door a little too firmly upon his return), sending files scattering across the floor of his office. He sighs and spends the next several hours restoring order. Finds his rhythm. Forgets he still has yet to eat today.

It’s half four when the phone rings, and Jack reluctantly sets aside his pen.

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.”

“Jack! Thank goodness. I need your help; it’s an emergency.”

Jack rolls his eyes; he has become quite adept at interpreting the nuances of her voice and whatever this is, it is certainly not classifiable as an emergency. “What have you done now?”

“Nothing yet. But who knows what sort of rash decisions I’ll make if you don’t make a hasty arrival.”

Jack smiles a little in spite of himself. It’s been a trying day; what he would like more than anything is a hot meal and the comfort of his own bed. But in the absence of those things, he could do worse than the company of Phryne Fisher. Reluctantly, he gives in.

“Give me four hours.”

“Three.”

“Four. I do have actual work to do.”

He can practically hear her thinking through the line as she mulls this over.

“I suppose that will work. I’ll have Cec and Bert stand in your place until you arrive.”

“Phryne, that isn’t what I-

She hangs up and he sighs. He isn’t feeling particularly indulgent and he has half a mind to just leave her and her cabbies to it. But he makes another cup of tea and settles once again behind his desk, attacking his work with new vigour. His attention is split, going forward, between the steadily diminishing pile of paperwork and the resigned knowledge that Miss Fisher is likely burying herself deeper and deeper into trouble with each passing minute. By the three hour mark, his vision is beginning to blur and he forces his focus away from his developing headache.

“Collins.”

“Sir.” Hugh’s voice reaches him before Hugh himself appears from around the corner.

“I’m stepping out.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t stay too late. Mrs. Collins will have my head.”

Hugh flushes with pride and drops his gaze as he laughs nervously. “I won’t, Sir. Good luck.”

Luck tends to be hit and miss when Phryne is involved. Jack has come to expect escaping with his life, but not without a head injury of some sort.

It’s dark by the time he arrives. He barely manages to bring the car to a full stop before she appears at the car window.

“You’re late.”

He shuts off the vehicle. “I shouldn’t be here at all.”

“And yet you are.”

He almost allows himself to smile. Almost.

Jack removes his overcoat and suit jacket before he leaves the car; experience and instinct tell him that they will do little to aid in his fitting in here. Phryne smooths his tie in a tender gesture of affection and then quickly turns on her heel and heads toward yet another run down building in a neighbourhood nearing shambles.

The air is already thick with smoke, the dock workers have clocked out and are already well into their pints. He clears his throat and forges onward; he’s already lost her in the crowd. He’s never sure what will be found when he’s summoned by Phryne, but he’s learned that it’s best to prepare himself for decomposing bodies falling from the ceiling. It’s almost guaranteed to be mostly up from there.

The red raggers are in the corner throwing darts. Under ordinary circumstances it would come as a surprise to realise he’s noticed them before Phryne Fisher, who delights in being the first one seen in any room, but Bert is already particularly belligerent and the policeman in him is drawn to this first. They spare him a cursory glance, but they do not give him away. They get better with practice, he’s noticed. He worries less now about outbursts from them mirroring the one at Café Replique years ago.

He finds Phryne near the bar, chatting amicably with a roguish barman who seems pleased with her company. Still lacking an irritating amount of detail, Jack orders a drink when there is a break in conversation and gives her a nod of acknowledgement.

“Ah, here’s my hero,” Phryne graces him with a wide smile.

“You called, I came,” he answers dryly.

She laughs again. Drapes her arm around his shoulders and slips the other hand beneath his waistcoat. The gesture is undeniably intimate, and he does his best to look relaxed (though he honestly does wish that she would, upon occasion, have a little less faith in his capacity for improvisation and bring him up to speed ahead of time). She sends the barman a flirtatious wink.

“What did I tell you?” She drawls, lightly rubbing Jack’s chest, moving so close they may as well be sharing a barstool. “Reliable, this one.”

“More than those two?” The barman nods in the direction of Bert and Cec, and Phryne gives a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Eric, you insult me.”

So the barman does have a name. That’s something, Jack supposes.

Eric shrugs unapologetically. “I have to ask, love.”

Jack clears his throat and removes Phryne’s hand from his chest. “Can we begin?” he asks gruffly.

The task, as it happens, is not difficult. On the scale of Ridiculous Things She Has Asked of Him, this mission barely registers.

Eric-the-barman is the owner of this upstanding establishment. He’s also been known to host rather suspect card games from time to time. Phryne’s amateur jewel thief has been known to participate. While Eric is a surprisingly modern man with no objections to beautiful women losing money at his tables, her suspect is decidedly less so; Eric is still as much under her charm as can be expected from any slightly seedy business man, but he will not allow her to participate if it is going to cost him, and he is wary of the cab drivers. She has frequented this bar during previous investigations, and though her cover had been left intact, Bert and Cec caused a hiccup that had evidently left a lasting impression.

All Jack has to do, Phryne informs him under her breath while Eric is busy with another patron, is play.

Jack is given a seat and offered another drink, and though he’d like to refuse it, it becomes clear that everyone at this table is expected to imbibe. Reluctantly, Jack takes a small sip and nurses it for as long as he can manage before being plied with another. He spends two hours at the table without any sign of Phryne’s suspect, and though he drinks slowly, he hasn’t eaten today and he can feel his mind clouding.

Cec and Bert join him, but are far gone enough to likely be more hindrance than help. Phryne may love them dearly, but the saving grace in a drunken brawl, they are not.

When the barmaid serving the card table slips outside for a smoke, Jack excuses himself under the guise of fetching another drink. In reality, he is reaching for an opportunity to stretch his legs and clear his head. Phryne is at the bar, and a small part of him relaxes. She’s been floating about all night, working the pub with as much ease as she would any high society function. He wouldn’t be surprised if her barman offered her a job before the night’s end.

Phryne watches his approach and raises an eyebrow when Jack trips over a raised floorboard and does not catch himself as easily as she expects; she realises that he isn’t acting. Not entirely, anyway.

He settles onto the stool beside hers. “Miss Fisher.”

“Jack,” she murmurs back.

Eric places a new drink in front of him and he nods his thanks. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“My my. How touching. I think I rather like the way alcohol affects you, Jack. When you’re not yelling at me of course.”

Jack gives an adamant shake of his head. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. Mostly.”

“You’re the only one here with a clear enough head to still be of any use in the event of a crisis.”

“You mean in the event you trip again and fall into someone like that large man in the corner wielding the billiards cue?”

As if she had planned it, they look over just in time to watch Cec stumble into the man in question. From a distance, they see Cec apologise and the man grudgingly brought around to Cec’s genuine charm, until Bert rages in and yells something they can’t make out before giving the man a hard poke in the chest.

“Oh no.” Phryne winces.

Jack’s eyes go skyward and he downs his drink, muttering about the general lack of dependability in her commie pets before he marches toward them. But he is not quick enough to prevent Bert from being struck in the face. Nor quick enough to prevent Cec from returning the favour in defense of his friend.

Phryne finishes her own drink and is fast on Jack heels into the fray.

* * *

 

It’s a mess, and in the end, Phryne’s suspect does not even make an appearance. A textbook brawl and some strong coffee (pulled from a thermos under the seat of the cab; Phryne thinks of everything or nothing. There is never an in-between) is enough to bring back total sobriety. Along with Jack’s semi-dark mood. Phryne disappears with Cec and Bert and Jack is mostly relieved for the chance to return to his home, prepare a late dinner, and go to sleep.

He makes it four steps into the building before he pauses and cautiously sniffs the air (another day, he would have been far quicker to react). Phryne has been to his place before, but they tend to end up at Wardlow. Yet the faint smell of her perfume is unmistakable. He changes course and heads immediately toward the bedroom with the expectation that he will find her splayed across his bed, but while the scent of expensive perfume remains, Phryne is nowhere to be seen in the flesh. He shakes his head. It’s been a very long day, and he’s losing his mind. Thoughts of food are once again forgotten and instead he opens a drawer to pull out some pyjamas.

Except the drawer is empty. Jack frowns and checks the next drawer. And the next. And finally the small closet which houses his suits and formal wear.

All empty.

What in God’s name is she playing at.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose and allows himself a moment for a deep breath before donning his coat and stepping back out into the cool night air, locking the door tight behind him.

* * *

 

Phryne is still awake when the light – yet firm – knocking begins on the front door. She’s surprised, but not displeased. It’s never anything less than delightful when Jack breaks his own rules. It doesn’t occur to her that it could be anyone else.

“Evening, Inspector.”

She is smiles and seduction when she opens the door, but both fade into confusion as she takes in Jack’s obvious impatience. He couldn’t possibly still be so disgruntled about the bar that he would drive all the way across the city to have an argument.

And then she remembers.

In her defense, she’s impulsive; she can’t be expected to keep track of _all_ her ideas.

Jack’s eyes narrow as the briefest hint of guilt flashes across her face. “I have half a mind to arrest you.”

“What for?” Phryne has recovered her indignation in record time.

“You know what for. Breaking and entering, to start. Theft.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack. It isn’t breaking in when the door’s unlocked.”

“That’s correct.”

“So what seems to be the problem?”

“The door was locked, Miss Fisher. As were the windows.”

“You’re certain?”

She’s aiming for innocent, but that’s never been a mask she wears particularly well, and Jack is not in the mood for it.

“Phryne, what have you done with my clothes?”

He’s still standing on the porch and when Phryne gestures him inside, his hesitation is brief; he exhales and resigns himself to going to bed late and hungry.

“Come upstairs.”

The eye-roll she receives in return is bordering on petulant, and it only serves to encourage Phryne’s sense of mischief. Jack’s emotional outbursts are few and far between; the smallest cracks in his composure are victories. She grabs his hand and pulls. She is not gentle. He does not expect her to be. His fingers curl around hers against his better judgement. He wouldn’t have come tonight if a part of him hadn’t been prepared for something akin to this.

Phryne doesn’t stop at her bedroom, and Jack almost misses a step when he pauses at the entrance out of habit and she does not. Two more doors are passed, and in front the third – a guest room, if he recalls Wardlow’s layout correctly – she finally stops just long enough to open the door and pull him through. The room is as beautiful as the rest of the house, though obviously less frequented. It’s small (comparatively speaking) and he thinks it’s possible Phryne placed Paddy in this room during his brief stay, but he can’t recall it being used at any other time. He doesn’t get the opportunity to give the room further thought; Phryne heads straight for the closet and flings open the door, revealing the majority – if not all – of Jack’s clothes.

Jack tilts his head. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s obvious, Jack,” Phryne huffs. “Originally I thought that I could, perhaps, make room for your things in the main bedroom, but this was much easier.”

Jack gives her a wry smile. “I’ve seen your closet. Mrs. Collins is forced to pack away garments on a weekly basis to keep up with you alone.”

Phryne grins without apology. “Hence the amendment to the original plan.”

“And yet it didn’t occur to you to leave me with some warning before sending me off to a residence no longer containing a stitch of clothing.”

“It slipped my mind.”

“You forgot that you broke into my home and stole-

-relocated.”

“ _Stole_ all my things-

“What else was I to do? You’re very particular, Jack. I couldn’t run the risk of you finding my choices unsatisfactory.”

“Of course. How foolish of me.”

“Now, should you choose to spend the night with blatant disregard for your schedule at the station, you can do so without waking before the sun and dragging me kicking and screaming into consciousness with you.”

She does not make a habit of inviting men into her personal space. Jack has become the exception to so many of her rules, but she has yet to regret it. She knows the sentiment is mutual. Is as confident in this as she has ever been in anything else. They do not speak of it aloud, but they would not be here otherwise.

Phryne does not notice that her fingers are still entwined with Jack’s until he tugs on her hand and brings her body flush against his. The kiss he places on her lips is gentle and familiar, as they have come to be on occasion. Jack is very good at interpreting her gestures. She experiences a moment of overwhelming gratitude for being so well matched.

“Do you like it?” She asks when they come up for air. They’re standing close enough for her to tease his mouth with her tongue should she make the attempt. So she does. And it is several minutes before Jack gets another chance to answer her question.

“I like it very much,” he says lowly. Simply. Her Jack. Her man of few words, but the most expressive eyes the world has ever seen. Or is it that she has simply learned to look? Phryne finds she does not particularly care to sort the semantics.

She kisses him again. Unbuttons his waistcoat and the first few buttons of his shirt in order to place her fingers close enough to his chest to feel his raw warmth through the thin material of his singlet.

“If you’re interested,” she begins with a focused, casual air that sends his guard up, “Mr. Butler put aside a plate for you. Quite unlike him to miscalculate the amount of food required for supper; it’s being kept warm in the oven.”

Jack breaks away from her rather abruptly, and it’s his turn to pull her roughly in the direction of the stairs.

* * *

 

They eat in the kitchen. Phryne sits beside Jack, turned sideways so that she can swing her legs over his lap. The chatter is rather domestic, but she decides that there are worse things. Every so often, she steals a bite from his plate. Not because she’s particularly hungry, but because there is something about being this close to him that calls for it.

When Jack finishes, the fog of hunger that has been hanging around him most of the day finally lifts. Sated and in no real hurry to go back home, he takes over stove duties after Phryne pulls out all the ingredients to make hot cocoa and then quickly grows bored of the task. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and Phryne perches on the counter. He gives her a pointed look, silently instructing her to behave, and she gives an equally pointed look in return, telling him the instruction will be unceremoniously ignored.

“I’ll have to leave early. I left quite a bit of paperwork behind at the station today.”

Phryne shrugs. “Assuming you can manage making it to the hall without waking all of Melbourne, I don’t foresee any problems.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth twitches. “I don’t believe in making promises I’m not absolutely certain I can keep, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne’s gaze narrows. “You’ll do your best, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Perhaps I should err on the side of caution and go home.”

“Perhaps you should. Be sure to take your shaving kit from the guest bathroom.”

“You raided my bathroom?”

“These things happen when one leaves their front door unlocked.”

“It was _not_ unlocked.”

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

The lopsided smile grows prominent. Jack takes the pot off the stove and carefully drains the contents into the mugs. Phryne blows gently on her share and watches Jack methodically wash the dishes. When he finishes, she holds out his mug and spreads her legs, inviting him to stand in the space between them. Jack accepts the mug, and Phryne wraps her legs around his waist, holding him in place. They drink slowly and when they are done, Phryne tightens her hold on Jack’s waist to prevent him from parting to tend to their dirty mugs.

“I quite like the idea of convincing you to stay without plying you with whiskey first.”

Jack smirks. “I’m not going to get any more sleep with this amendment to our arrangement, am I.”

“Of course not, Jack.”

He acknowledges this with a small shake of his head. “Shall we give it a test?”

Phryne pushes herself off the counter in response and Jack barely manages to catch her.

“To the bedroom, Jack.”

“Yours or mine?” he asks with a straight face.

Phryne nips his shoulder. “Yours, mine, the stairs, the parlour… right here on the counter if you’d like-

Jack adjusts her weight in his arms and carries her toward the staircase with a laboured sigh. She laughs into his neck and tightens her grip. All things considered, it’s been a very good day.

 

 


	3. Macerate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the six years RositaLG and I have been visiting back and forth, we've established a few traditions; amongst other things, there is always day drinking (and subsequent giggle fits and spittakes), there is always episode bingeing, and there is always fic posting. Nine times out of ten, I spend so much time stressing about it, I don't end up posting until hours after she's gone to bed. This is no exception. Soooo here is my thing. It's been done before, but hopefully it isn't completely boring. Happy Vacation Time, Bestest. If you wake me up before 10:00am I will lose it.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken a moment to leave kudos/comments on this series. I'm sorry I've been so terrible with review replies, but know that I appreciate them all. On bad work days, I reread them and they help me keep my Customer Service Game Face looking genuine.

* * *

 

**macerate, v.: This is why I pull away sometimes. To soak in love is to be weakened by it. Better to swim in it, then come back to shore.**

Her grip on the gun weakens. She’s distracted. All she sees is the intimate brushing of his jacket. The touch of their fingers. It isn’t jealousy. She doesn’t have the patience for that. At least, she never has before. But her chest contracts painfully and something very much like fear sparks inside of her when she sees the ease with which Concetta helps him into his coat. The way their hands linger. Jack doesn’t do casual dalliances. It would be so much easier if he did. She’s taken for granted that Jack would always just be… present. That she is the one with the whirlwind of interesting friends and connections.

Foolish. There’s only so much time a person can spend reading alone.

It’s possible she’s made a very big mistake, and she can’t be certain whether she finds it more upsetting that she may be losing him, that even now, she can’t be sure what she wants – or that in all this time, she’s never once thought to ask him about his friends (‘old’ and otherwise).

Her attention wanders during Vincenzo’s initial interrogation. Generally, she's very good at multitasking; she can ask questions and tell charming stories (whatever is required of her, really) while paying rapt attention to her surroundings, but she finds that tonight she does not possess the concentration for both.

Hours later, Phryne and Jack are back where she is at her most comfortable; shared drinks while they discuss a case. Her glass holds significantly more than his. They are not in her parlour, but Jack’s office adds to the intimacy. Phryne has no real evidence, but she is a lady detective and she is not bound by such laws; instinct tells her that Jack is not quick to use his office for this level of casual brainstorming, and instinct is enough for her. It does not often lead her astray.

She doesn’t intend to bring up the presently-unnamed woman, but when the opportunity all but falls in her lap, she is not strong enough to hold her tongue.

“And this Fabrizzi, he was the husband of the woman at the restaurant; the one who was… brushing down your jacket.”

She’s trying to be subtle but he isn’t easily fooled. Never has been. Is irritatingly resistant to her charms.

“Concetta.” There is a hint of a smile. Jack has picked a fine time to tease her.

“She seemed to know you quite well.”

“She’s an old friend. I believe that’s a term I’ve heard used.”

Teasing. Definitely. She can’t say she’s enjoying this new – frustratingly coy – version of Jack. When had he become so fond of games?

‘Old Friends.’ It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. But the shouting coming from the front of the station means that she doesn’t get time to ruminate. She is quiet (by her usual standards) as she studies Jack running interference between the two feuding families who seem to be seriously contemplating a fist fight right in the centre of the precinct. Quiet as she assesses the way her lower belly coils in pleasure when her staid Inspector raises his voice and slams a heavy volume onto the counter.

(It is not the power itself that attracts her. Rather that the power exists and he seldom chooses to use it)

The tension in the room falls. The suspects leave the precinct, Hugh follows them out, and Jack returns to his office. Phryne stands lost in thought for several moments before she joins him.

* * *

 

It’s more than professional curiosity that leads her to Strano’s. To Concetta. She isn’t sure what she is expecting to find, is even less sure of what she _wants_ to find. But the arrival of Concetta’s father brings her back to task. She puts Jack out of mind, and she focuses on the story unfolding at the table. She has only one thing (the important thing) on her mind when she breaks into Guido’s.

But Phryne's concentration has proven decidedly fickle this case. For all her good intentions, it isn’t long before she finds a new distraction. A familiar distraction. A welcome distraction.

She does not fraternise with the suspects while they are still suspects. Except when she does.

* * *

 

“you came back to the restaurant last night?”

“I had a few questions for Concetta.” Two can be coy, Jack Robinson. She had practically _invented_ coy.

“Did you get the answers you were looking for?”

“Too early to say.” Phryne's unabashedly smug. She’s just so pleased to have the aloof tone –the one which had fully abandoned her the evening before – back in her arsenal. But once she begins to speak, she cannot stop.  “When you say ‘old friend,’ do you mean old friend like Dr. Mac, or _old friend_ like Captain Compton.”

Well. That had been short-lived. She hears her desperation. Damn him.

“Well, Concetta Strano hasn’t saved my life from a burning plane wreck in Madagascar, if that’s what you mean. Can I give you a lift?”

She is just about done with this new Jack Robinson who has apparently learned to wrestle away the upper hand. “No, thank-you; I have an appointment at the docks.”

“Nosing around?” He returns to himself. Frustrated. Wound up by the idea of her doing exactly what he already knows she will do.

“I’ll be careful,” Phryne finds herself promising. She smooths his lapel as he stands close, not because it’s needed, but to reassure herself that there is still space for her. That he is not far gone enough to step away from her touch. That her mistake has not been so big that she cannot come back from it. “Promise me you’ll be careful, too.”

In retrospect it’s a large risk. It isn’t until he holds her gaze and they continue their usual dance of eye contact that she realises how deeply it would have cut her to have him break away. She swallows and looks at the ground to compose herself, but leaves her hands on his chest. Jack has long since been accepted as a friend. A very close friend. Mac aside, the closest friend that Phryne has. His feelings for her are no secret, but the depth of hers are taking her by surprise. The feel of his overcoat is reassuring, and it is difficult to let go.

And because it is difficult, Phryne does it quickly.

She gives him a smile which she is certain does not reach her eyes and turns toward the cab. Jack notices. There’s the smallest twitch in his brow and his gaze sharpens, but he makes no further inquiry. She wonders if he is filing the moment away to be discussed at a later date, or if he has already drawn his conclusion. She hope’s it’s the latter.

Phryne isn’t particularly eager to have a discussion with Jack about their relationship when she has yet to sort her own feelings on the subject. Even now, she does not like the thought of being trapped in serious conversation. It is not what they do. They dance. Jack has never tried again, following the time he had walked out of her parlour after the car-wreck misunderstanding. She wants to believe that they would be better, now. But there are no guarantees.

* * *

 

When Phryne sits with Guido in the garden, her speech is already fully prepared. She doesn’t have to give it any thought; it has, after all, been given on several occasions. Their parting will be amicable, but there _will_ be a parting.

So she asks her questions and she gets her answers, and that is the end.

She wonders if men are really as blind to it as they often appear. If they genuinely do not consider the inevitability of this moment until they are facing it.

“Well, I need to ask more people more questions, so thanks for the wine.”

“No no no. Bella, stay.”

“I’m sorry I can’t ravish you.” These are words she has said before. The indulgent smile she has given before. She is not, in actual fact, sorry. “But I still need to find out who murdered Nona Louisa.”

“But I think I have fallen in love with you.”

The words are prettier in Italian than they are in English. Perhaps not as pretty as they sound in French. In Russian. In Arabic. Phryne Fisher has heard the declaration in more languages than she can speak. And her response is the same as it has always been.

“Perhaps. But I’m sure it will wear off.”

She is careful with her heart. She is quick to end affairs before they have a chance to become serious. But the truth is, it isn’t difficult. It doesn’t hurt to cut ties. And she’s wistful when she tells Guido that it will pass not just because she is aware that it will – that it eventually does for everyone. Anyone – but because she does not remember what it is like to feel new love, brief as it may be. Does not remember the thrill of falling. Of all fledgling possibilities bubbling in her chest. Does not remember how it feels to look at someone and believe, maybe… yes.

Pleasure, joy, excitement; these are old friends. But there are days she worries _he_ (he does not get a name) took her capacity for love. Took a part of her she has not been able to rebuild. She sees the way that whirlwind romances affect others, but it is beyond her, now. She loves men for their bodies and occasionally for their minds and their friendship, but she has never felt for them the way that they have felt for her. Not since…

She does her very best to take nothing seriously. But there are days she is nostalgic. There are days she worries that her choice is not a choice.

“Whoever he is, he is a lucky man.”

This is not part of the usual script. This should not be about Jack. But the nervous laugh Phryne leaves in her wake speaks volumes louder than any denial or deflection. Guido will recover. Jack would recover. Possibly has already. Concetta is lovely and she should be relieved that she will never have to do to Jack what she has just done to Guido.

* * *

 

Another drink shared. They are in her parlour this time, where they belong.

(the possessiveness of the thought startles her. She cannot pinpoint when she began to think like this)

He is _irritatingly_ vague when she asks him about his night. It’s true that he doesn’t make a habit of asking about her social calendar, but damn it all, she wants an answer. Needs to know how far this has gone while she has been in the dark. And Jack has made himself unreadable. Like flipping a switch. One moment, she can see into his soul, and the next she may as well be attempting to cajole information from a brick wall.

_What greater force is there than thwarted love?_

A pettier person could be led to believe that this is turnabout for the Compton fiasco. But she knows him better. The universe, however, is not so easily let off the hook.

She knows Guido would have eagerly picked up where they had left off if she had changed her mind and returned. But he (Guido. Jack. Both of them. Either of them) has gone and ruined it.

“So what did you say you were up to last night?”

Now Jack is the one who won’t let go. For two people usually disgustingly in sync, they cannot seem to stay on the same page this investigation.

“I didn’t.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“No reason. It’s called civilised conversation.”

The change in pitch escapes her notice, but it does not escape Jack’s.

The remaining pieces drop into place quickly. Their victim is proven vindictive. Cruel. Their murderer perhaps more victim than the victim. The young lovers do not win. No one gets what they want.

Gathering enough evidence to arrest Roberto Salvatore gives them back their sense of purpose in a case with an otherwise less than satisfying end.

Jack loses his temper. Phryne and Jack have been on the receiving end of more threats than she can count and he has never reacted so impulsively. They are all turned around this investigation, and Phryne cannot shake the niggling sense that they cannot go back. Not completely.

But she has recovered her ability to multitask. She is quick to raise her gun. Quick to put an end to any thoughts Antonio had of taking back control of the situation.

The feud is over. They are – once again – disgustingly in sync, and the tightening in her chest has nothing to do with adrenaline.

* * *

 

When Jack states that he has business to tend to following the wrap-up at the station, Phryne does not ask for further explanation. She knows where he is going; her instincts are on par with his. Dinner at Strano’s has taken precedent over nightcaps at Wardlow, and there is no more wondering.

Jack and Concetta.

Phryne knows what she wants, now. And just like before, when she had tried to keep their conversation light as he stumbled his way though a confession of feelings following a death-that-wasn’t, she realises too late. Jack will not be walking out of her parlour this time. Jack will not be visiting her parlour at all. She wonders if they can still be friends. Whether it hurts more to think of think of them as friends without all the flirtations and entendres, or not as friends as all. It proves difficult to really separate the one from the other. But if Jack has always managed, certainly she can as well. She can muster up the courage to convince him he needs her, but she does not know that she can keep it up for as long as it takes. For as long as it had taken the last time.

The entrance to the parlour is open and yet, she doesn't heard the knock on the front door. Barely registers Mr. Butler’s announcement before Jack is standing in front of her holding a bottle of wine. Calm.

At rest.

That’s the difference.

Jack has mastered appearing calm, aloof when he needs to be. Rational. Analytical. But he is rarely at rest. Phryne can be comfortable anywhere. Jack’s stance may be calm but his eyes, those eyes, flit about taking note of exits and obstacles in their path, calculating (or perhaps simply desiring) quick escapes. He’s comfortable at Wardlow. But now he is… at rest. It changes him. Softens him.

“Not eating Italian tonight, Jack.” Phryne’s voice is gentler than she would like it. Vulnerable. He’s caught her off guard. But for all her previous doubts, it is a statement, not a question. Instinct once again prevailing over hard evidence.

“Strano’s is closed.”

His smile is subtle. Beautiful. Assured. Rusty. As if the muscles in his face cannot quite get used to the position. Something in Jack has settled. She will be intrigued, soon. For now, she is just catching up. But she is quick of mind, and it does not take long.

This is not a final send-off, performed out of a sense of duty and obligation by a man who lives his life adhering to a high moral code.

She adapts. Or rather, she forces the surroundings to adapt to _her_. She does not make a habit of yielding; only of making a situation her own. “Looks like you’ll have to make do with me.”

There. Much more like herself.

“Looks like we’ll have to make do with each other.”

They’ve been here before; it is their baseline. Neutrality. They step forward and they step back, but here in her parlour, moon high in the sky, drinks in hand, is where they end eventually. And begin, potentially. Perhaps. One day.

Phryne wouldn’t do this with anyone else. Would not possess the patience or the attention span for this One Thing, over and over again with no marked change in the general result. Jack is an exception. Always an exception. He pours the wine. She moves from the chair and busies herself with the gramophone. If Jack can stop wallowing, so can she. She refuses to endure any more of these bizarre role reversals.

“Will you regret it, Jack?” She asks some time later. When the wine is gone and they are well into the whiskey and her tongue is as loose as the rest of her body.

Jack tilts his head to the side, gives this his full consideration. She appreciates this about him. He needs time to calculate his answers, but when he gives them, they are honest.

“No, Phryne.”

The succinct response fills her with warmth. She blames it on the whiskey. It’s certainly not his perfect cadence. The low tones. The enunciation that is every bit as careful as the man himself. And it’s all that needs to be said on the subject.

She knows now. Knows that she feels things for Jack she hasn’t experienced in a very long time. Knows she is not ready to act on it. Knows he will wait. Knows it may not be fair to him but he will stay. Knows that nightcaps in the parlour will be enough until she can know more. Until she can know enough. She will not change, and she is beginning to believe that she will not have to.

 

 

 


	4. Milestone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's NaNoWriMo time, which obviously means that instead of working on the piece I planned, I finished an 8k piece of fanfic. Awkward. Thanks for reading. My brain gets weird when it's procrastinating, so this is slow paced and strays away from the strict Jack/Phryne way these normally play out, but hopefully you find it enjoyable.

**milestone, n.: In love we mark our own miles, because distance, like time, bends to our shared definition.**

**A Time Well Before 1918**

It’s a special treat for MacMillans the Younger when their father brings them to his practice. The hospital as a whole is Elizabeth MacMillan's favourite place in the world. On a particularly special Wednesday, a turn of good fortune gives bronchitis to Eliza’s brothers, leaving her the only child able to accompany their father to work. However, a turn of _bad_ fortune brings a large number of senior staff to the hospital for an important meeting, which means she is unceremoniously turned out by her father.

Evidently, it is frowned upon to allow young girls free rein in a medical facility.

Back home, she reads the encyclopaedias in the study until her mother orders her to assist with the mending. After one too many – allegedly incorrigible – comments on her part, Eliza is unceremoniously ejected from these premises as well.

Without her brothers for company – and because she is not explicitly ordered not to – Eliza borrows her oldest brother’s bicycle and decides that this shall be the day she takes herself further than she’s ever gone before. She doesn’t often get the chance to venture out on her own (she can’t get far on foot, even when the opportunity arises), and if she can’t be at the hospital, only a very grand adventure can make for a suitable alternative activity.

She spends hours exploring, and her route eventually takes her past a row of pubs, already crowded. The large frames and the volume and the uniforms visible on the men outside smoking, boasts to the world that they play football. Already, Eliza is entirely bored by groups of loud men, and she wouldn’t so much as slow down if not for a girl running across the road at precisely the moment she rides past the entrance.

A collision is avoided – just barely – and largely credited to Eliza’s reflexes.

(The small girl without any sensibility or value of her life is certainly no help in the matter)

But it comes at a cost, and Eliza is pitched over the handlebars.

“Are you alright?”

Eliza stares incredulously at the girl now looming over her. When a second girl, younger, appears, Eliza is quick to stand and brush the dust off herself. “Didn’t your parents teach you to look before dashing into the street?”

“Is this your push bike?”

In her indignation it takes a moment for Eliza to find her answer. Apparently this Silly Thing has never been taught to apologise, either. “It’s my brother’s.”

“Can I have a go?” She’s already running her hand over the frame. Eliza gives it an angry tug away.

“No!”

A frown appears and disappears in quick succession. The girl stands taller and stretches out her hand. “I’m Phryne. Phryne Fisher.” She gestures to the small child beside her. “This is my sister, Jane.”

Jane takes a step closer to her sister and stares at Eliza without blinking. Perhaps she’s afraid there will be a fight. Perhaps she is not entirely off the mark.

“Elizabeth,” she answers, though she doesn’t know why she bothers. “Everyone calls me Eliza.”

Phryne taps her chin. “You don’t look much like an Eliza.”

To her great embarrassment, she feels her face beginning to flush.“Right. Well, I’m off. You might say ‘thanks’, next time, instead of touching what isn’t yours without permission and insulting people.”

“Don’t be like that. I only mean it’s a rather ordinary name for a girl who can ride as well as you.”

“Names have nothing to do with any of that,” Eliza mutters. But most of the bite has (begrudgingly) left her tone.

“We’re going to a football match; want to join us?”

Eliza crinkles her nose. “No, thanks.”

“Come on. It will be a good spot of fun. Mother doesn’t like it, but Father couldn’t care less so long as I’m smart about my bets. And it looks as though it might rain today; you can really watch their muscles at work when it rains.”

“No, thanks.” Eliza repeats. The incredulity has snuck back into her tone, caused by both the pushiness of the request and the notion that it could be considered worthwhile entertainment. The day had been full to the brim with possibility when it begun, and she can feel them all slipping away.

“Don’t you like watching men?” Phryne asks, as it has not yet occurred to her that one may not.

Eliza shrugs. “I suppose I have nothing against it. They’re just rather uninteresting.”

Phryne considers this very seriously. Across the street, the football players exit the bar and begin (loudly) making their way toward the fields down the road.

“Well, what would you prefer to do?”

Eliza sighs. This one did not take hints well.

“I’m running late as it is. I don’t really have time to-

“Oi!”

Eliza is interrupted by a hulking giant of a man stalking across the street.

“Oh no,” Phryne mutters.

Jane, who had tentatively moved herself into plain sight, retracts behind her sister once more.

They barely know one another, but regardless, Eliza is not the type to leave a person (clearly disadvantaged for this confrontation) alone.

“Where’s your father hiding?” He yells as he approaches.

“You’re hardly the person I’d tell even if I knew.” Phryne snaps.

The trace of fear building in Eliza is chased away by shock. She has never seen a child address an adult in such a manner. Could never have _imagined_ taking that tone. Her jaw practically hits the ground. Children coming out of bars and speaking to grown-ups: she feels as if she has stumbled into another world entirely.

The decidedly suspect character has reached them by this point, and he towers menacingly over the three young girls. He doesn’t seem surprised by Phryne’s forward speech exactly, but he doesn’t appreciate it either.

“Twenty pounds he owes me. You tell ‘im I’m looking for him.”

“Tell ‘im yourself,” she retorts.

Eliza notices that Phryne stiffens even as she makes this bold declaration. Eliza assumes this stems from the fear that has been instilled in herself and all children – even the bold ones – when any sort of adult communication is involved. But when he takes a step closer, the physical threat finally registers. Perhaps Phryne isn’t as oblivious to her surroundings as she appears.

Before he can carry through, his attention shifts. Whether it’s the red hair or the bike that draws his attention, Eliza can’t be sure. But she is immediately resentful of both.

“You’re not from these parts, are you, little girl.”

Inside, she’s quite frightened. But she feels the same competitive swell she experiences in the presence of her brothers. If Phryne can be calm and defiant here, she can be the same. “Near enough.”

He turns back to Phryne. “Your mate’s push bike looks expensive. What do you suppose it cost; around twenty pounds do you reckon?”

Eliza swallows and prepares to hand it over. Because she is brave, but she is not stupid.

Phryne, it turns out, happens to be both.

When he steps toward the bike, Phryne kicks him hard in the knee. She’s small – smaller than Eliza, and that is not something Eliza experiences often – but she can evidently pack a punch because the adult man immediately recoils in pain.

While Eliza slips into stupefied shock, Jane jumps onto the handlebars of the bike. She is perfectly balanced on the first try; her bird-like bones easily leaping into the air and floating gracefully into a well assumed position. Young Jane, it seems, is accustomed to this sort of adventure.

Phryne nods at Eliza and bolts. _Bolts_. Eliza feels betrayed until Jane prompts her with such a soft command of ‘ _go!’_ she very nearly misses it.

Eliza is absolutely unaccustomed to not being the strongest personality in the room. Unaccustomed to following orders from children her age. Unaccustomed to standing still because she had not been smart enough, fast enough, to pick up on the hints provided. Sufficiently spurred into action by this previously unexperienced stab of inadequacy, Eliza pushes off and pedals with all her might, the curses of the would-be thief at her back.

She catches up to Phryne in a matter of seconds and checks her speed, slowing just enough to keep Phryne in front of her as the girl darts between buildings and through gaps in fences. She notes that, while there are plenty of nooks and crannies which would fit a child, Phryne sticks to the spaces which will also accommodate a bicycle. She has a certain begrudging respect for this attention to detail. Thank goodness for small favours. Phryne comes to an abrupt halt and Eliza is forced to do yet another hairpin turn to avoid running her over. At least she manages to stay on the bike this time.

“You’re insane. You’re actually insane.”

Elizabeth MacMillan is breathless, and this cuts some of the sting out of the statement. Perhaps that is why this odd girl is unaffected by the words and fails to burst into tears in the manner she has come to expect of children her age.

(It is not, in fact, the reason. But she will come to learn this soon enough and she will be all the more endeared by it)

“You might say ‘thanks’.” Phryne parrots.

“What’s it to you? It isn’t your bicycle.” Eliza retorts. Her breathing is slowing, and she stands straight as the stitch in her side eases. She eyes her newfound companion suspiciously and wishes – not for the first time today – that her brothers were not ill. They were _much_ better at following direction than this dark haired lunatic with the strange name. She doesn’t even want to get started on how little she feels she can trust the _other_ one.

The doll-like blonde in question looks up at her sister, her breath still coming in quick gasps.

“Father is going to be furious, Phryne,” she forewarns, with the confidence of one who has been right about such things many times in the past.

“What Father doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Or us,” Phryne responds with equal confidence.

“Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” Eliza (just barely) resists the urge to stomp her feet.

“It’s important to you.” Phryne says adamantly. “I won’t let you lose something important to you on account of my father.”

Her eyes dance furiously and Eliza begrudgingly concludes that she could likely do worse in the playmate department than Phryne Fisher. Still, she can’t help questioning Jane’s reliability. Of the three of them, she certainly looks as if she would be the one to crack under pressure.

“She isn’t the type to lag, is she?” Eliza asks.

Phryne’s head snaps toward Eliza, eyes flashing. “I’m far more concerned with what _you_ might say. Janey is as loyal as they come.”

“Tell my parents? And set myself up for a good whipping?” She scoffs. “That’s unlikely.”

Phryne steps close into her space and Eliza reflexively balls both hands into tight fists. But after a moment, Phryne grins. Once Eliza is certain she is not about to be punched, she relaxes. And soon, she is grinning as well.

“I like you, Eliza.”

Eliza tilts her head and gives this some thought. “I think you may be the sort of friend which Father says it takes ‘getting used to,’ but my brothers are sick and we should have enough time for me to like you too.”

It isn’t the answer Phryne expects, but she’s intrigued by the honesty and by the spirit. She has a very good eye for kindred spirits. And though Janey is quiet as ever in front of their new playmate, Phryne can tell that she likes her. Anyone Janey likes is worth liking. Eliza will come to appreciate what an honour this is; it usually takes Janey weeks to speak in front of strangers.

“It’s getting dark; if I’m not home in time for supper, I’ll be in for it,” Eliza says.

The concepts of curfews, of being _required_ to return home for a specific time, are foreign to the Fisher girls. Janey gives her older sister a curious raising of her eyebrows, and Phryne merely shrugs.

“Will we see you tomorrow?” She asks.

“Yes,” Eliza says, quite firmly. She’s never had to run from an adult before, but she does not regret the thrill. Her irritation has faded alongside the danger of being caught. “Tomorrow.”

Once Eliza’s brothers make their recovery, the bike is no longer hers to borrow as she pleases. Her days are much as they were before. When she does see Phryne and Jane, their friendship is easy. Janey comes with them everywhere. The outing usually ends with them sprinting away from the scene of some petty crime. On occasion, Eliza’s smooth speech saves them from the need to run at all. From this, Phryne learns that the delicate approach can be as effective as a swift kick. They adopt the skills of the other that they find admirable, and mostly ignore the skills which they do not.

They are a strange pair from the very beginning. While they become fast friends, they forgo the period of new childhood kinships in which they cannot bear to be parted. Phryne and Eliza are very often parted. Phryne already has a right-hand woman (read: underling) in her sister, and Janey is much easier to bring around to her manner of thinking. As for Eliza, she has a father to follow into medicine and three older brothers with whom to alternately compete for his affections, and keep her busy in a far more amicable fashion. It is inarguably nice to have a friend who is not irritatingly bigger and stronger, but she prefers to keep company with people who are a little easier to control, thank you very much.

They get older and the sisters often find themselves at the MacMillans’ table. Eliza occasionally finds herself at the table of Phryne and Jane’s aunt. Phryne and Jane do not invite her into their own home. They get older still, and Eliza understands why.

“I’ve been thinking.” Phryne begins one day. It is summer and it is beautiful, and they languish on Aunt Prudence’s expansive lawns, a short distance from the pool. Eliza raises her eyebrow and lets her expression speak for itself. Phryne rolls her eyes. “Are you going to work at the hospital with your father?”

Eliza shrugs and rolls onto her stomach, careful to keep in the shade. She has learned the hard way – many times over – that the summer sun is not her friend. “I’d rather not. But I’ll go to whatever hospital will have me, I suppose. At first, anyway. I won’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Won’t that get confusing? _Five_ Dr. MacMillans?”

“I don’t bloody know, Phryne. What are you getting at?”

“I just think that an extraordinary person such as yourself deserves a title of their own. No offense to your father and brothers.”

“You could shorten it.” Jane suggests. “Dr. Mac. Or just ‘Mac,’ when it suits you.”

That’s all it takes. Jane is the original thought, and Phryne is the charming freight train who gets it to stick. Eliza’s father has little patience for Phryne’s bold speech, but her mother is delighted by it (arguably more than she is delighted by her own daughter). Her parents use the moniker ironically at first, and then less so. Mac’s older brother is quick to show how readily he will jump on board with anything Phryne believes to be a good idea. Pathetic. Mac (as she is now unquestionably known) suspects that she will have to keep a closer eye on the two of them. Any snogging is sure to be a great inconvenience to her.

Soon (relatively. Everything between them is relative) they reach their defining crossroads. Phryne and Andrew's rising flirtation falls away from the minds of all involved parties.

(A chance meeting after the war changes things. But that’s another story)

“Where have you been? It’s been weeks.” Mac snaps.

Phryne doesn’t answer.

Phryne has never before this _not_ had an answer.

They’re still children, but they’ve grown old enough for Mac to realise – slightly too late – that something is very wrong. Phryne doesn’t look her in the eye. It’s at this point that Mac takes note of Janey’s absence. It's never occurred to her before now that she has never seen one without the other. She can’t quite decide on which part of this is more peculiar.

“We’re leaving for England. Forever.”

Mac makes a face. “Why would anyone want to live there?”

Phryne swallows and attempts to take her eyes off the ground, but it doesn’t last long. “Something terrible happened to Janey. Mother and Father say they can’t stay here. They can’t…” her voice trails off and a series of sniffles soon turn into a flood of tears. “But what if she comes back, Mac? It’s only been a few days; grown-ups don’t know everything. What if she finds her way home and we’re gone… she’ll be all alone. She’s never been alone…”

A deep fear builds in Mac’s stomach. She is old enough to understand that there is bad in the world. Sadness. Unhappiness. But evil has been an experience recognisable in definition only, until this moment. Something terrible has happened to a friend. And this means terrible things can happen to her brothers. To her parents. To herself. Phryne will never again be the girl she had been Before, and a piece of Mac similarly falls away. She wants to cry as well.

Her arms instinctively fold around her strange friend – it has only been a few years since they first crossed paths, but meeting Phryne has taught Mac another adult lesson. When the right people fall into one’s path, time is relative. They had known one another their entire lives from that very first day.

Phryne tucks her face into Mac’s neck until her breathing slows. When she pulls away, she finally meets Mac’s eye. They are solemn. Still.

Yes. They are no longer the girls they had been.

Mac clears her throat. “You can leave a note for her. Somewhere she would think to look. I can check for a reply every Saturday after my chores are finished.”

There is a tiny flicker of… something, in Phryne’s eyes. The vacancy is quick to return, but this is enough to inspire confidence in Mac that her less-than-inspired idea is not without help.

“You’re a good friend, Elizabeth MacMillan.”

There is a park in Collingwood which backs onto a forest. The Pirate Girls claimed it as their own long ago. In this forest, lichen grows especially wild on a large tree. When Phryne had learned – by chance – that the odd growths shared a name with something dark and mystical, she had insisted it become one of their spots. And so Mac visits the lichen infested tree every Saturday until another missing young girl gathers enough attention, and Mac’s parents put an end to her solo wanderings. Soon after that, there is an arrest. Then a trial. Only one charge is pressed, but there is suspicion of at least one other. Her parents discuss it at length because they do not think she is listening. Because they do not realise what this individual has already taken from her. And Mac drafts her first letter full of adult-level sorrow and sends it off to England.

* * *

 

**A Time Much Closer to 1918**

Medical school is easy. Mac has never given much thought to the opinions of others, and she gives even less thought to the opinions of fools. Medical school, it turns out, is full to bursting with fools. But the war is more difficult. Fools in positions of power lead to deaths, and prejudice combined with general incompetence is no longer the source of bemusement or entertaining anecdotes it had once been. She is tired in her bones. Fighting for treatment courses she knows to be correct and fighting to keep humans alive leaves her fighting practically every hour she spends awake. Mac is made of stern stuff, and when she gets the opportunity to sleep, she sleeps deeply.

(It will be many years before she begins to dream again. She is luckier than most)

She gets the opportunity to see Phryne in France, when it appears that an end to the war may be on the horizon. It’s the first time they’ve seen one another in several years but everything is easy. They are not the girls they were, but they are connected.

(This is both more whimsical and more dramatic a sentiment than Mac would generally allow to stand, but Phryne is insistent, and it is rarely worth Mac’s time to argue such matters. This is clear even when they are communicating through post alone. And she can’t come up with a reasonable enough refute regardless)

There is a nurse in Phryne’s unit named Katherine, and Mac gets off with her spectacularly (in all senses of the word). Her life has been comprised of medicine and very little else for years now, and the root of her apathy when it comes to men has revealed itself only relatively recently. It’s thrilling to feel… to feel. Though she understands that dangerous circumstances and adrenaline are often heightening what is already there. A boarding house has been converted – like so many buildings – into a makeshift hospital. There are no beds to spare, but Mac and Katherine make use of every dark corner and closet available to them. No one is watching. There is a war going on. If Mac were a less practical soul, she might have squandered time ruminating the fact that it takes world wars for people to straighten out their priorities enough to mind their own business.

Phryne has some rich sap or another wrapped around her finger by her second week in France, and he leaves his extravagant manor open to her when he is out of the country. Phryne naturally extends the invitation to her (already, oldest and dearest) friend. Katherine and Mac have just finished a very thorough and cathartic fuck in the master bedroom. Nearly forty hours of work following a bombing, and they awoke from five glorious hours of dead sleep with the energy of live wires. Now they sit against the headboard, sheets pooled around their waists, cigarettes burning in hand far too quickly.

“And to think, Phryne’s known you all this time and never once thought to tell me about you until you arrived. I’m rather offended.”

Mac chuckles and takes a long drag of her cigarette, then blows smoke slowly into the clouding air.

“Best not to strain yourself untangling her thought processes. It’s very seldom personal.”

The front door located on the floor below opens and slams, effectively announcing the arrival of the woman in question moments before her voice carries up the stairs.

“Mac? Are you here?”

Mac pointedly raises both eyebrows and puts out her cigarette on the nightstand ashtray. Katherine reaches for her nightshirt at the end of the bed. Mac can’t be bothered. She and Phryne may be recently reunited, but they are not so much changed.

There’s a cursory knock, but the door opens before there could have possibly been any response.

“Hello!” Phryne greets cheerily.

“How kind of you to join us.”

“I had grand plans to surprise you both with good coffee, but they fell through.”

“Accepting defeat?” Mac teases lightly. “How very unlike you.”

Phryne laughs and collapses on top of the sheets, forcing her friends to move their legs or be crushed. Katherine takes this opportunity to slip out of the bed and gather her clothing from the floor.

“I should go back,” she apologises.

Mac acknowledges this with a wink and Phryne gives a friendly – if tired – wave. It doesn’t appear that she’s slept yet. Mac recognises the inability to focus on any one spot - the borderline delirium - from her own arrival approximately six hours earlier.

“When are you due back?”

Phryne gestures vaguely. “I’m covered for a few hours.”

Mac nods and climbs out of bed. “Use them more wisely than I did.”

Phryne’s eyes have already closed, but the smile she gives in response is bright and wicked. “I’m sure it was worth it.”

* * *

 

**It Is Past 1918 (And They Do Not Dwell On This Period of Phryne Taking Things Seriously)**

Two years pass before she and Phryne meet again. Belgium, this time. Mac is there for a women’s medicine conference. She’s a long way from home, but she wants to learn; she will go where she must to make this happen. Phryne’s last letter had answered Mac’s questions succinctly, and suggested a date and location for meeting following her arrival.

Nothing is wrong with the letter exactly, it’s just… without Phryne’s exuberant embellishments, it reads rather like a letter Mac would have written herself. She admits to occasionally skimming Phryne’s letters – she doesn’t possess the patience for flowery narrative, but the lack of it is jarring. She flashes back to the last time they saw one another as children and cannot rid her mind of the belief that something is amiss. But she ignores the dread creeping into her throat because there is no point in getting worked up before she has context. Besides, there isn’t anyone left in the world whose absence can hurt Phryne the way Jane did. Does. Phryne’s parents will always be her parents, but Mac suspects she is the closest thing Phryne has to family.

They meet at the agreed time and place and right from the beginning, to Mac, it is very clear that Phryne is playing a part. She’s trying very hard, and here is the giveaway. Because Phryne Fisher has never had to try.

There’s a certain skittishness, a distinct lack of mischief, in Phryne’s general demeanor. The acting itself is not unusual for Phryne, rather the quality. They’ve known one another for most of their lives and even Mac sporadically has difficulty separating the act from the genuine article. Right now, the act is on the level of a cheap school play.

She’s beautiful. She’s always been striking, always turned people’s heads. But there is a refined reservation to her motions now that she has never had before. Bright lipstick and dark eyes, expensive clothes which highlight her – many – good features. The Phryne Fisher whom Mac knows can (and does) make friends anywhere. This one is unobtainable. Museum art.

Like her mother, Mac realises. Like her mother, with better clothes.

“You’re sure you’re alright, darling?”

“You know me, Mac.” Phryne deflects with a laugh. “There isn’t much of anything that can keep me back for long.”

“You do have a cat-like penchant for landing on your feet.” Mac responds dryly.

Phryne tries to laugh, but ends up clearing her throat instead. Her eyes brighten for just a moment before she stares fixedly at the table, lashes fluttering furiously.

The feeling of déjà vu returns.

“Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Mac presses gently.

Phryne clears her throat again and recomposes her features. Straightens her spine. Looks Mac in the eyes and lets herself be sad. “Another time, darling.” She offers a weak smile. “I’m a touch too ashamed at the moment. But that will pass. Everything passes.”

“Not us. Not me.” Mac’s adamant. It should sound contrived, but it doesn’t. Not when it’s her.

Phryne’s smile widens to very nearly the real thing.

“Never us. We are constant and unchanging. Our very existence defies every law of the universe.” She raises her glass of whiskey with flourish. “Hang the universe.”

Mac outwardly rolls her eyes. Because it would be odd (from her) if she didn’t. Inwardly she can’t help but feel a stab of relief at the brief return of Phryne’s flair for dramatics. “You _would_ think yourself significant enough to register on the radar of an entire universe.”

She finishes her drink and orders another. The wink Phryne sends her is all sass as she does the same. The food is delicious and while Phryne has a bite ready on her fork throughout, by the time they are getting ready to leave the restaurant, the food has been scrambled about the plate but not consumed. These are not details that Mac is supposed to notice, so she lets them slide. In all their meetings that follow over the course of the next few days, the practice is much the same.

Phryne is trying. It is not Mac’s place to rush her. To tell her how to heal from what has wounded her so deeply. Everything passes. Mac doesn’t hold blind faith in many things, but she holds blind faith in Phryne Fisher.

She’s back in Australia two months before she hears from Phryne again.

_Dearest Mac,_

_The timing of your visit was rather unfortunate; I was very much not myself. Paris and I did not part on good terms after the war. I’ve always had a weakness for artists. This particular artist had a weakness for weakness. Poor judgement was executed._

_A few broken bones, a fresh start, an inherited title, more money than I could possibly spend, and some months later, I am restored._

_That’s all we ever need say about it._

_I’ll be leaving Europe soon. The world is vast and I want to see as much of it as I can. I’ll send you an address as soon as I have one. Please check in on Aunt P when you can; it’s a lot to ask of you, I know, but you’re the only one strong enough for the task._

_The **Honourable** (Ha!) Phryne Fisher_

_P.S.: Andrew is here visiting a friend of a friend of mine; we were serendipitously reunited at a party last week. We recognised each other instantly. I find it highly suspicious that you neglected to tell either of us we would be in such close proximity to one another. No matter; we reacquainted ourselves. Over and over. For hours and hours._

The details trickle through in bits and pieces over the years. Mac learns his name, but it is very rarely used. Names carry power. There are now two names Phryne and Mac to staunchly avoid. Mac has never been one to ask for more than a person is willing to give.

They grow. The world changes. They do not, so much. Phryne burns through men and adventures (often at the same time) and it is rare for Mac to catch her in the same place for longer than it takes to exchange a couple letters. They make their own circles of friends, colleagues, reluctant acquaintances, lovers. In a similar sense to when they were children, they drift apart, but they always end together. Phryne begins to refer to them as a tide. It is another fanciful notion to which Mac cannot be bothered to expend the effort objecting.

Mac is one of the first doctors hired for the new women’s hospital. The other doctors are surprisingly competent (for men), and her biggest challenge is the board of directors; she is entirely too abrasive for their preferences. But she is confident and she is smart, and the firm support of Phryne’s – board member – Aunt settles the issue for the time being. Mac suspects Phryne has something to do with Prudence’s change of heart. As a thank you, she procures for Phryne an internal device of exceptional convenience.

Thank heavens every man in every mailroom is entirely oblivious on the subject of highly illegal female contraceptives.

Phryne expresses her gratitude by recounting the dalliances experienced with the device in question. In graphic detail. They are the children they were, only wiser and richer. Life is good. Life is very good.

When the first cursed name between them begins to make headlines again, Mac does her duty, just as she had twenty years ago. This time, they do not have to wait six weeks for the letter to arrive.

FOYLE UP FOR PAROLE STOP

Less than a day passes before there is a reply.

COMING HOME STOP

* * *

 

  **1930**

They’re looking for a perfume bottle. Phryne is positive she’s cracked open her most recent murder investigation, and she calls the police. Of course. But Jack is settling an incident in one of the cells and he’s been under the weather as of late to begin with, so she leaves a message. And she can’t very well be expected to _wait_.

Mac, on the other hand, is a different sort of public servant. A public servant who needs to work on being less accessible to troublesome friends during working hours. Because certain troublesome friends have no qualms about cornering her at work and being a nuisance.

“This is one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever done.”

“Not even close, Mac,” Phryne responds, without granting her the courtesy of even turning to face her. “And you agreed.”

“Don’t I always?” Mac continues to grumble. “My participation does not validate the plan; it only proves that I take complete leave of my good sense, spending time with you. Even though I really ought to know better.”

“Come now, Mac. You know you wouldn’t be here if you truly didn’t want it.”

“And _you_ know that the only reason you asked me along was because your beloved Inspector caught his death of cold during your _last_ equally risky adventure, and he has yet to fully recover.”

“He’s recovered enough,” Phryne simpers suggestively.

“Ah. So help me, Phryne, one more word of your and Jack’s naked tangos and I will see myself home.”

“Since when do you balk at talk of a little sex?”

“Since I came to know Jack Robinson like a brother. It’s bad enough you fucked Andy-

“That was very nearly a decade ago, Mac.”

“It was my birthday!”

“In any event, unlike Andrew, Jack is not your _actual_ brother. And while we’re being technical, I had established a relationship of sorts with him well _before_ you began working with Homicide.”

“So he’s more your brother than mine?” Mac quips drily.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

The headlights of a motorcar coming up the drive shine in the window, almost fully illuminating the dark room. Phryne and Mac instinctively press themselves against opposite sides of the glass. Once the lights pass, Phryne yanks open the nearest door and gestures Mac ahead of her.

Mac raises an eyebrow. Her friend has truly spent too much time with the Inspector, to be honestly under the impression that she can be forced to blindly enter an unlit room on her say.

“Would you rather stay out here?” Phryne whispers.

“I like my odds. I can certainly outrun you in those shoes.”

“Hush. Get _in_.”

Mac does so. Reluctantly. They’re now trapped in a very small closet, and both would really rather Jack be the one experiencing this in Mac’s place.

The front door opens. Their suspect’s father is heavy, and they can easily discern his movement through the house. Which would be a good thing if not for the fact that this leads Phryne to believe they can safely continue their search. With him only a floor above them.

“We’re leaving, Phryne.”

“Just one more minute.”

“We leave now, or the next time I see Jack, I tell him all about Sarah Jennings and the horse and the-

“You wouldn’t.” Phryne doesn’t often sound scandalised, but Oldest and Dearest Friends have access to humiliating corners of one’s past closed off to others.

“I absolutely would, to prove a point. And you know it.”

Unfortunately, they are not nearly so quiet as they would have themselves believe. The home owner calls the police (likely during their heated discussion in the confines of the closet). So when Mac flings open the door, prepared to storm through it without so much as a backward glance to make sure Phryne follows (Phryne has confidence in spades, but there are events even she would rather stay buried), there is a police car already quickly making its way up the drive.

“Walk quickly. They haven’t seen us yet.” Phryne murmurs.

They walk quickly. And then they are caught. Quickly. And when they’re caught, they are lucky enough to have it be at the hand of none other than Senior Constable Hugh Collins. Needless to say, they do not learn any lessons. Hugh makes the dutiful attempt to deliver Jack’s usual lecture, but it is rather less than impactful.

Senior stripes or not, they have known Hugh for too long.

“Furthermore-

“Yes, yes, Hugh. We’re terribly sorry we were caught. We will be sure to never let it happen again.”

Hugh is satisfied for a beat, and then he processes the sentence and frowns. Mac openly smirks and cuts in before he can reply.

“We’ll see ourselves home, Constable. We don’t wish to inconvenience you any further.”

They can see the wheels turning in Hugh’s mind. Ultimately, he heaves a resigned sigh and gestures them forward.

“Ladies.”

Phryne gives him a bright smile as she passes. Mac tips her hat. Hugh waits until the car disappears down the road and then he telephones the Inspector.

* * *

 

  **The Years Just Blend at This Point**

The weekend comes. It is not so different from weekends past. They’re deep in the whiskey now. Neither one of them are prone to indulging to the point they begin to lose their wits, but Wardlow is a safe space. Phryne's parlour, specifically, safer still. They have seen one another at their worst and their best, and nothing quite compares to the ease that accompanies keeping with a lifelong friend. There are days when such a relationship can be more curse than blessing, but today is not one of them.

Phryne slides off the couch in favour of lounging on the floor, and Mac sinks further into her preferred armchair. They’ve taken turns mentioning the late hour, but neither party seems to be in any rush to bring things to an end. Mac has a rare day off tomorrow, and though their pool of friends runs deep, Mac decides that tonight, they are to be elitist about the company they keep. She hasn’t asked where Jack is, but she suspects that he has locked himself in one of the rooms upstairs until he deems the coast clear. She can’t blame him. She’s grown fond of the Inspector and he’s proven himself capable, but he is no match for her or Phryne. Let alone the two of them together.

Then the front door opens.

Phryne’s eyes reflexively brighten, and Mac still cannot help finding it strange to see her best friend so at ease with another man coming in and out of her home by means of his own key.

Phryne makes a rather lewd hand gesture, indicating that she knows _exactly_ where Mac’s thoughts presently lie. Mac laughs and lights a cigarette, offering one to Phryne even though she knows it’s unlikely to be accepted.

Phryne shakes her head and wraps her arms around her knees. “Jack!” She calls.

They can hear his footsteps hesitate on the stairs. A few moments pass (during which Mac is certain he’s weighing the positive and negative effects of simply continuing and pretending he has not heard the request, poor man) but the direction of the footsteps changes and grows closer.

Jack opens the door, but does not step into the room. “Miss Fisher. Dr. MacMillan.” He greets them with a nod of his head and the barest hint of a smile. “Good evening. I’ll admit, I’m somewhat surprised to see you home so early.”

It’s well past midnight. Jack may or may not be joking. It isn’t always clear at first.

“We were forced to make a quick exit from the nightclub; your men were very sympathetic to our situation. City South constables truly are the most accommodating, aren’t they, Mac?”

Phryne is picture perfect innocence, and Jack studies them both carefully. It isn’t always immediately clear whether Phryne is joking either. Phryne cracks first and breaks into her most brilliant smile. The lopsided twist of Jack’s mouth is quick to follow. Mac has less and less patience for their silent exchanges now that they have set fire to their reservations, and she rolls her eyes and finishes her drink. 

“Care to join us, Inspector?” She asks as she stands to refill her glass.

Jack shakes his head immediately. “I don’t wish to intrude.”

And he doesn’t. This is plain to see. He also seems so eager to make a retreat, that the wicked aspect of Mac’s nature – which is so well matched to Phryne’s – cannot let it stand.

“Nonsense.” Mac replies. Phryne shoots her a warning look, which she ignores. She pours another glass and holds it out to Jack, forcing him to cross the threshold and take it from her hands.

“You look tired, Jack.” Phryne gives the floor beside her a playful pat. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“There’s a better chance of me staying awake if I stand.” He smirks and takes his usual place at the mantle.

Mac had not set out to expand her circle of friends, but, like Phryne, Inspector Robinson has managed to make a space for himself. Unlike Phryne, it had occurred so slowly, she hadn’t noticed the extent of it until they had begun grabbing pints once a week while Phryne was gallivanting about Europe.

“Your dedication to paperwork is admirable.” Phryne winks.

“There certainly seems to be more of it these days, what with Melbourne’s rise in civilian interference.”

“Are you still hanging on to the Nicollson investigation?” Mac asks dismissively. “Really, Inspector. If it was that great a shock, perhaps you’re in the wrong field.”

“Miss Fisher comes as no surprise, but you, Dr. MacMillan, you’re usually above such tactics.”

Mac rolls her eyes. “I’ve disappointed you. My deepest fear has come to pass.” She deadpans.

Phryne doesn’t move from the floor, but she sits slightly straighter. Mac crosses her foot over the opposite thigh in a manner which is inviting, but ultimately emphasises (to anyone who cares to look. And no one ever looks) that they are both different people when they are not alone in the world. Even when the company is comprised of one as welcome as Jack. They have expanded their circle to include him, but they will always be their own island.

Jack makes his excuses once he reaches the bottom of his drink, and this time, they show mercy. Phryne’s eyes track him as he leaves the room and Mac is warmed enough by the whiskey to entertain a vague, fleeting burst of sentimentality; Phryne and Jack are well suited, and it is beautiful to see beautiful friends so happy.

But she is not the type to dwell on such things. Let alone speak of them aloud.

\--

In the blink of an eye, it seems, the whiskey is gone. Mac and Phryne hear the soft rustlings of Mr. Butler in the kitchen and realise that the sun must be close to rising. They don’t do this often, though it comes to pass more often these days than in all their lives before. Before Janey. After Janey. After England. After England the second time.

They shuffle into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of hot, strong coffee. Mr. Butler rarely needs to be told what Phryne needs. Soon, Mac and Phryne are drinking their coffee in the back garden and eating excessively buttered toast. The sun warms their skin, and the dark sunglasses keeps the brightness tolerable.

Midway through her second cup of coffee, Mac is ready to return to her own home. The alcohol is out of her system, and it would be preferable to be settled in bed before the headache takes over. Phryne offers her a spare room, but she declines.

They have survived a war; they can fall asleep anywhere if they have to. But they don’t have to anymore. And these are the smaller privileges they do not take for granted. Besides, if she hurries, she may not end up in her bed alone.

“I’ll have Cec and Bert drive you home,” Phryne says.

 “That won’t be necessary.” A new voice, greatly amused, joins them in the garden.

“Sammy!” Phryne greets with delight. “Please, join us.”

Sammy – nee Samantha, occasionally Sam, never Sammy until meeting the acquaintance of one Phryne Fisher – gives a resigned shake of her head. But ultimately, she obliges (as most do, under the command of this particular freight train). She’s only known Phryne a short time, but she’s as susceptible to her charm as anyone.

In seamless time, Mr. Butler arrives with a steaming plate of eggs and toast, as well as fresh coffee.

“Will you be needing anything else, Miss?”

“Darker sunglasses, perhaps?” Mac quips. But there’s a softening to her mouth as it tries to smile against her wishes.

Phryne laughs. “No, Mr. Butler. Thank you.”

He nods his head and retreats into the house, and Mac finally allows herself a gentle smile. “Hello, darling.”

“So you haven’t forgotten me then?” Sam sighs dramatically, though in clear good fun. “I was certain I would never see you again.”

“I did say that I would be late.” Mac reminds her.

“Yes, and I foolishly inferred ‘late’ to mean ‘before the full rising of the sun the next day’.” Samantha reaches for the sugar, and thoughtfully stirs a spoonful into her coffee. “However, I’ll concede to the fact that ‘late’ does tend to mean something very different to you and Phryne, and any concern was of my own making.”

“We’re forgiven then?” Mac’s soft smile is replaced with a more signature smirk.

“Phryne, naturally. She is our gracious host, after all. I’m afraid the jury is still out on you.” She winks.

Mac rolls her eyes, and that’s the end of that. But it is more open flirtation than Mac generally stands for, and Phryne understands that Samantha is special. A larger contributor to Mac’s happiness than she has been given credit.

Phryne and Mac extend once more. Make room for this person who is not oldest and dearest, but who has become very important to both of them (in different ways) just the same.

Acting on impulse (as she does so often), Phryne discreetly glances under the table and catches Sam’s foot bumping gently against Mac’s calf. She is not discreet enough. When her eyes rise, they are met with a glower from Mac that is not at all disguised by the sunglasses. Samantha is very special indeed.

 The low rumble of Jack’s voice draws Phryne’s eyes to the kitchen door. She lowers her sunglasses and winces, pushing them back up the bridge of her nose. It’s just about time for her to make her way to her bed as well. When Jack finally steps into the yard, he’s fully dressed and perfectly coiffed, and a small pout rests on her lips. She hates missing opportunities to see him rumpled and unguarded first thing in the morning.

Mr. Butler sets down a new breakfast plate.

“Good morning.” Jack tips his hat. “Miss Florin, a pleasure as always.”

“How many times must I ask you to call me Sam?”

“Sam.” He corrects, with a tilt of his head and an easy half smile. “I trust your sleep was sound, in the absence of these ruffians.”

“Sounder than yours, I imagine,” Sam answers with a laugh.

“Yes, well, that goes without saying.”

His eyes dance and a small flutter runs through Phryne’s stomach, even as she schools her features into an expression of mock hurt. Maybe she isn’t quite sober.

Jack asks Sam about her work as he spreads a generous helping of butter on his toast. Samantha’s response is enthusiastic and drawn out between sips of her coffee. Phryne and Mac exchange rueful glances, mocking this scene of disgusting domesticity even as they participate. But when the years have been marked by death and war, perhaps a small dose of domesticity can be tolerated (on the right day, even appreciated). It’s too late to escape the imminent headache, so Mac and Phryne resign themselves to more coffee and decent company.  Mac doesn’t possess the same compulsion as Phryne to vocalise how clever she is, but she does take pride in her intelligence. In the intelligence of her friends. In the ease of this table. She would blame the whiskey if not for the hangover. And this influx of sentimentality is how she knows that it is time to leave. She throws back the rest of her coffee and stands, tucking her hands into her pockets.

“I’m leaving. We’ll be here all day at this rate.”

Phryne has her knees drawn up again her chest, toes pressed into the edge of the chair. She’s leaning more toward being asleep than not, and she gives Mac a careless wave. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, Doctor. Miss Florin.”

In no real hurry, they make their way to the car. Sam traces patterns over Mac’s knee as she drives, and this small repetitive action relaxes her to the point she would likely have fallen asleep if not for Sam’s unexpected question.

“Wherever did you two find each other? It’s taken me until just now to realise you've never mentioned anything that would help me figure out when you started.”

“She’s an old friend,” Mac mutters, face pressed against the window. Silence ensues, and Mac lifts her head. Samantha nods less-than-casually and the miscommunication dawns on Mac. “Not _that_ sort of old friend. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“No! No, of course not.” Sam clears her throat. Her rise in pitch as she’s vocalising an especially outrageous falsehood is surprisingly close to Phryne’s.

In spite of herself, Mac smiles. “We were children. She was as irritating as she remains to this day; I didn’t get a say in the matter. Still don’t.”

“Somehow I’m finding it difficult to imagine you being forced into a friendship. Or anything else, really.”

“Alright, perhaps we deserve one another.” She dances around the subject. There is so much to their history that Mac rarely considers; it’s difficult to pick a spot to mark as the beginning. In any case, there are only bits and pieces which are hers and not _theirs_ , and she doesn’t make a habit of bringing to light what isn’t hers to tell.

Sam tilts her head and takes her eyes off the road to briefly study Mac's face. “Or perhaps you’re both very lucky,” she eventually returns.

“To have each other?”

“Goodness, no. To have the Inspector and I, of course.”

 Mac appreciates Sam's powers of perception, and the ease with which she allows the conversation to take a new direction. She clears her throat and reaches for a compromise. “If there’s ever something you really want to know, I’ll answer what I can.”

Sam’s free hand resumes its dance over Mac’s knee. “Another time, perhaps. I think for now I’m content to wait until you have something you wish to share.”

It’s still early, and Sam’s car is the only one on the road. Mac risks taking her hand and gently kissing her fingers. Then she rests her head against the window and closes her eyes once more. She and Phryne may or may not deserve one another, but Mac can agree that they are both – all things considered – quite lucky. With this final thought, she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear RositaLG. Sorry I'm doing this and not the other thing. My bad.


End file.
